My memories of life on the street are short. It was a long time ago, and a very different city.
I do recall having an irrational fear of being bitten by a rat in the basement, to the point that I fabricated a story of it actually happening, which I bragged about in school. I am not sure why I did it, though perhaps it was my hunger for attention as I felt like an outsider from as early an age as I can remember. I didn’t feel liked. I can perfectly recall when I had my first "girlfriend" and overhearing two popular, starched-collar preppy girls in my class sneer, "Why would she want to be with himmmm?"
It wasn’t until I met other kids like me that I started to like myself. I loved hanging out with the fuck-ups, hoodlums, punks, graffiti writers, and burn-outs. Those who wanted to just live for the day, with little regard for their own well-being, all in the name of a good time. Those were my people.
Before I myself became a fuck-up, I was thought of as one. My all black clothes, unpopular taste in music, permanent frown, and big sloppy mop of hair on my head painted an unintended picture. Being yourself in those days wasn't cool — it was isolating.
Fortunately I had one friend on the street, and at a young age he was already creative, living for adventure. Our favorite pastime was turning off the lights in his second floor bedroom and throwing water balloons at the hard-rocks trooping to the housing projects a few blocks away. These cats would swagger down our street, rocking the fashion of the day: sheepskin coats dyed either dark blue or burgundy. They didn’t really do the best job gussying up their coats, so when the balloon would smash into them, the dye would run. Their reaction was one of total fury, which amused me and my pal to no end. Especially when dudes would pull out out a gun.
We were reckless little shits having the time of our life. For the first time in my short existence, I didn't have to force a smile, and the future didn't look so bleak.
Words by Lee Greenfeld © 2020
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